


Tremble for yourself, my man

by withthekeyisking



Series: Batfam Week 2020 [3]
Category: Batman (Comics), Nightwing (Comics)
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Angst and Feels, Batfam Week, Batfam Week 2020, Blindfolds, Captivity, Dehydration, Emotional Manipulation, Gen, Hallucinations, Humiliation, Interrogation, Kidnapping, M/M, Manipulation, Muzzles, Non-Consensual Touching, Rape Aftermath, Rescue, Sensory Deprivation, Sensory Overload, Starvation, Supportive Batfamily (DCU), Torture, Wetting, hearing loss
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-10
Updated: 2020-03-11
Packaged: 2021-03-01 00:47:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,662
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23086495
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/withthekeyisking/pseuds/withthekeyisking
Summary: He can't see. He can't move. He can only wonder how long it will be until his family finds him.When tragedy strikes, the family has to come together to help one of their members, and face some of their own failings along the way.
Relationships: Alllll the batfmily bonds, Dick Grayson/Original Male Character(s)
Series: Batfam Week 2020 [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1640407
Comments: 89
Kudos: 440
Collections: Tales from the Cave





	Tremble for yourself, my man

**Author's Note:**

> Title from _Little Lion Man_ by Mumford & Sons
> 
> Day 3: **Injuries** | Bonding During a Mission | No Capes/Civilian AU
> 
> I'm going to preface this by saying a) read the tags my dudes, ye been warned, and b) there is going to be a second chapter that focuses more on the batfam, hence why it fits this week. The first chapter is just...oof. Ok now enjoy!

He can't see.

It's the thing about this situation that's getting to him the most, really. He can handle being bound to the wall tight enough he can barely move, he can handle his gloves being taken and his ear comm being removed, he can handle how cold the room is, hell he can even handle the muzzle that's been clamped over his mouth.

But by _god_ he can't handle all of that _and_ have this thing wrapped around his head.

He can't even tell what the material is, cloth or metal or plastic or _whatever,_ and that in and of itself produces some anxiety. If he knew what it _is,_ then he could make a plan to _get it off of him._

He could handle everything, if he could simply see what's coming.

The darkness and the cold have taken away some of his ability to tell how long he's been here, but he knows it's a while. His body wouldn't feel _numb_ the way it does if he hadn't. His legs wouldn't be aching from having been standing for so long. His mouth wouldn't be so dry, his stomach wouldn't be clenching with hunger.

He knows the purpose of this. They're trying to break him down, make him more susceptible to interrogation when they come with their questions. They're smart, and patient. He's been captured by _many_ people who have attempted to torture him for information, and rarely do they last this long in waiting. This is...whoever these guys are, they aren't amateurs. They know what they're doing.

And Dick, left alone in the cold and the dark, bound to a wall, muzzled, has nothing else to do but worry about it.

* * *

His shoulders are burning.

The way he's bound—with his hands in cuffs to either side of his head, bolted to the wall—doesn't allow for much movement in his arms, but he tries to roll his shoulders nonetheless to relieve some of the pressure. Not that that's even his biggest concern, at the moment. It practically blends into the burning in his legs from standing for so long and in his back from being pressed against freezing stone, but he chooses to focus on his shoulders because if he focuses on the thing that really wants to take the forefront of his mind—

Well, then he's gonna piss himself. And that's...not something he has any intention of doing any time soon.

So yes, his shoulders are burning. He makes it distract him. Thinks about how sore they'll be later, how Babs might offer to rub them and how he'll groan with pleasure in an exaggerated fashion just to make her smile. He doesn't think of his bladder or how he can't see anything or how he has no clue how long he's been here.

* * *

He closes his eyes.

It makes him feel better about how one of his senses has been ripped away from him. If he's consciously making the decision to not see, then it's _his choice_ and not something his kidnappers have done. It can't be them exerting control over him if he's just resting his eyes.

He tells himself that over and over again. For a brief time, he even gets himself to believe it.

But it's dark and cold and _quiet_ and all of his body is thrumming with a low-level burn, and he has to pee _so fucking badly,_ and his stomach is ready to eat the rest of his insides, and dehydration is making him dizzy, and he has _no idea_ how long he's _been here—_

He's strong, and this isn't going to break him. But it's...a lot. It's a lot. And it's made him weak, for whenever they stop waiting and decide to come talk to him. His thoughts are muddled, his body pained. Overall, really not a great place to be.

He squeezes his eyes shut and pretends for just a little while longer.

* * *

When there's the sound of a door opening after who knows how long, Dick can't stop himself from startling. He's been alone for so long, it's been quiet for _so long,_ that the simple noise of a metal door swinging open on creaking hinges grates on his ears, barely able to suppress the wince that wants to follow.

There's footsteps, and another laps over the first, and another, three heavy pairs of steps entering the room. Men, odds say. He still can't see, it's still _so dark—_

He tenses as someone approaches him, an involuntary reaction, but all the person does is unlatch one side of the muzzle to let it hang, freeing his jaw, before stepping away again. Dick works his jaw from side to side, stretching out the kink made by so long with his mouth forcibly clamped shut.

"Hello, Nightwing." The voice is low, smooth; it contains that honey-slicked quality that many salesmen and greedy rich assholes have, the kind of voice that tells you from the get-go they want something, and they're very good at getting what they want.

And Dick, _god,_ Dick is so starved for human contact after so long locked up by himself, that he latches onto the presences in the room, tilting his head towards the speaker.

But he's not an idiot, and he's not going to let the fact that he's a little stir crazy get him to seek out his captor's company. That's a fast track to Stockholm Syndrome that Dick really doesn't have any interest in going down.

"Hiya," Dick says pleasantly. His voice is a little scratchy, from lack of water and of use, but he manages to make himself sound light and uncaring all the same. He wishes he could see their faces, judge their responses, let him adjust his approach depending on the reception. "I'd offer to shake your hand, but..." He wiggles his hands above the restraints.

There's a chuckle, an amused and unbothered sound, that Dick doesn't appreciate hearing in such a situation. "Good to know your generation still has manners, at least."

Okay, so the speaker—obviously the guy in charge—is at least a generation older than him. Not that that helps Dick in his current position, but it's always good to collect facts; you never know what might come in handy.

"What can I say, I was raised right," Dick agrees with a charming smile, the kind Babs says makes all the high society girls get _'in a tizzy'._

"By Batman?" the man asks casually.

Dick's expression doesn't falter. _"God_ no. Can you imagine Batman as a _dad?_ I pity the kid who has to be grounded by him."

The man hums. "He does hang out with quite a few teens; I figure he's got the discipline thing down by this point."

"Why, you want tips?" Dick asks with a huffed laugh. "Because I'm sure I could arrange a face-to-face for you with him, if you like. As soon as I get out of here, I'll make sure to tell him that you're _dying_ to talk to him."

He's beginning to feel more like himself, even after such a short interaction. The ability to say something, _do_ something, and have someone say and do things right back. This is what he's good at, has _always_ been good at. Goading, teasing, getting under the bad guys' skin until they make a mistake and he gets ahead. The more they talk, the more they give away, the more Dick has to nail them after this is all over.

And the more they talk, the less they torture. Well, usually. The way some Gotham crooks speak might as well be considered torture.

"I think I'll pass," the man replies, unbothered by the snark. "But if you'd like to go so badly, I'm happy to let you! I just need one teensy bit of information first. Then you can have food, some water, get out of this cold room..."

He's got the right tone for the words, that's for sure. Low and comforting, but not condescending. Not dragging the words out, stating them like they're simply fact. Drawing attention to the problems Dick's been facing. Showing he's the one with the ability to fix these problems.

This is not the first time this guy has done this. And that is...concerning.

"A teensy bit of info, huh?" Dick muses. "Well, let's see. I'm an Aries, but only just _barely."_

There's a momentary pause, and then the man laughs a little. "Thank you for sharing, Nightwing. I'm an Aries too, but smack dab in the middle of the dates, not on the cusp."

Drawing (probably fake) comparisons between them, offering up personal information to make himself seem human and relatable. Oh yes, this guy knows what he's doing.

A shiver runs up Dick's spine.

"What are the odds," he drawls, putting as much derision into his voice as he can, and is rewarded with a snort.

Footsteps approach him, and he braces himself for a hit to the gut or the face, but instead the man brushes his knuckles very gently down Dick's cheek. Dick jerks his head back, baring his teeth, and the man only laughs softly under his breath before reattaching the muzzle and backing away again.

"Alright, Nightwing," the man says indulgently. "We can try this again a little while later. Sound good?"

Dick's heartbeat speeds up at the thought of being left alone again. His breath catches, but even if he wanted to ask for anything—which he doesn't, he would _never_ —he can't, the muzzle once more taking away his ability to speak.

Three pairs of footsteps walking away, and then the door shuts again, once more leaving Dick alone in the dark and the cold with nothing to keep him company except for his screaming bladder, twisting stomach, and burning body.

* * *

After that little visit, he tries to keep count in his head.

He makes it to three-thousand-four-hundred-ninety-two before his body is unable to hold it any longer. The pee escapes him in a rush, gushing down the inside of his Nightwing suit, soaking his legs and dripping into a puddle beneath him.

He lets out a small whimper of distress, the wetness and the smell beginning to get to him. But along with that distress comes a large amount of _relief._

One less hurting body part to deal with.

* * *

The only reason he knows it's been a long while the next time they come is because his suit is no longer sopping, but just damp.

Not that Dick's aware of much, this time. He's weak with hunger and dehydration, his body shaking from how long he's been in the same position, a smidge delirious from being isolated for so long. He started hallucinating a little while ago. He'd really like to go home now.

"Hello, Nightwing," the same man from before greets. "Had an accident?"

His tone is sympathetic, understanding, staying far away from condescending. Dick appreciates the lack of mocking.

"Would you like some clean, dry clothes?" the man asks.

Yes, Dick very much would. Very, _very_ much. But like hell he's going to make any indication of that to his captor, his captor who wants information from him, his captor who _will not_ break him.

Footsteps approach him, and the muzzle is once again disconnected from one side. A large, rough hand cups his cheek, tilting his head up, and he's too weak to fight against the hold, limply allowing the man to move him how he likes.

When something presses against his lips, he squeezes them shut on instinct, knowing whatever it is, can't be good. But the man only chuckles, a good-natured and companionable sound, and explains, "It's a water bottle, Nightwing. Surely you'd like some water? I won't even ask you for anything this time."

It could be drugged. In fact, it is _probably_ drugged. Something to lower his inhibitions, maybe? They wouldn't poison him, not when they still want something. Getting drugged right now would be very bad; he isn't strong like he usually would be, and it'll be so much more challenging (see: impossible) for him to fight against the effects of whatever they've put in the water.

But if Dick doesn't drink, he will die. He knows how dehydration works, and he's been here long enough that that is a real danger. He needs water to live. Which means he has to take the chance.

Cautiously, Dick parts his lips, allowing the man to tilt some water into his mouth. As soon as the liquid hits Dick's tongue he gasps, sucking it down greedily. He's never tasted anything as amazing as this simple bottle of chilled water.

When the man starts to pull the bottle away, Dick can't stop the small desperate noise that makes it's way out of his throat before he clamps his mouth shut against it.

But the man doesn't mention it, simply says, "Slow and steady; too much too fast will only make you throw it back up—it's been a while since you've had something in your stomach."

Dick barely cares; he wants more water.

It's that thought that pulls Dick up short, clearing his head for a moment. He can't let this get to him. He would like more to drink and dehydration is a real concern, but vomiting it all back up would serve no purpose. Would maybe even make things worse.

"What do you..." Dick tries, the words quiet and a little rough, but the water has soothed his throat enough that talking doesn't hurt overly much. "What—do you want?"

It's always good to have as much information as possible. If he knows what specifically the man and the others are after, then he can more easily keep it from them. Lock it away in a little box in his mind, like Bruce taught him. Still there, still accessible, but easier to contain.

There's a contemplative silence, and then the man says, "Right now, I'd like to get you out of that outfit; it stinks, for one, and it'll give you a rash soon if it hasn't already."

Dick gives a small shake of his head. No, that's something _Dick_ wants, something to make _Dick's_ life easier, and he and the man do _not_ have the same goals. There's a piece of information the man wants, not to help Dick.

"You...know what I—mean," Dick gets out, and then coughs roughly, swallowing against the burst of pain.

"Don't worry about that right now," the man tells him comfortingly. "Now, yes or no—would you like to get out of that suit and into something clean?"

Dick hesitates. He does. He really, _really_ does. And the man hasn't added an addendum, hasn't asked for anything in return. He still could, after Dick gives his answer, but that doesn't mean Dick has to _agree_ to whatever he asks for. And if there's nothing...then Dick gets out of this piss-stained suit and into something clean and dry.

"Yes," Dick says softly, and braces for whatever the man is going to ask—

"Great, I'm glad," the man says, pride in his voice, and Dick...doesn't know what to do with that. Doesn't like how off-balance that tone makes him feel. "Thank you for being honest."

Dick doesn't respond.

"Now, I'm going to take your suit off; I know you bats are all very clever, so I wouldn't be surprised if this has some sort of defense mechanism. Does it? If I try to help you, will it hurt me?"

"No," Dick says. His mask will electrocute someone if they don't take it off the right way, but his suit is easier. He knows Bruce has a bunch of safeguards in the batsuit, but considering how many times Dick just rips his uniform off in exhaustion as soon as he gets home after patrol, having a defense mechanism in it would only result in he, himself, getting harmed each night.

The man reaches around behind him, hand between Dick's back and the wall, feeling for the top of the zipper. Dick's debating whether or not he should explain the hidden catch, but the man finds it, pulling the zipper down his back without trouble.

"Thank you for your honesty," the man says again, and squeezes the nape Dick's neck gently before pulling away. "I'm going to need to cut the sleeves, okay?"

Right, because he can't uncuff Dick from the wall. Yeah, that would've been too good to be true. Not that Dick's really in a state to fight at the moment. He gives a small nod.

When the man grabs ahold of Dick's arm, his grip is gentle, simply a bracer to keep him in place. Whatever kind of knife he uses is sharp—would have to be, to cut through the material of Dick's suit the way it is—but the man is careful, and he doesn't nick Dick at all as he slices along the length of his right arm, then his left.

When that's done, the upper half of his suit falls down easily, and Dick's suddenly reminded of how _cold_ the room is, his newly bared skin instantly raising with goosebumps. He fights against a shiver.

The man's hands go to his hips and pull the suit down his legs. He doesn't comment at all on how he _must_ feel the wetness, how he practically has to touch it, and for that Dick is grateful. The man gets the suit—and his underwear—down to his lower calves and then pulls off his boots before getting the rest of the suit off. It makes a disgusting noise as the man tosses it to the ground a few feet away.

Dick, completely naked now, shivers.

There's another pair of footsteps that approach, and Dick tenses automatically, but whoever it is doesn't say anything or touch him, just sets something down next to him with a quiet _thump_ before drawing away again.

"I'm gonna clean you off a little, okay?" the man says, and the way he's crouched makes his warm breath wash across Dick's thigh.

"I—what?" No, Dick doesn't think he wants anyone touching him right now. Especially not—in his lower half.

"You don't want a rash, do you? Besides, what's the point of putting on clean clothes if they're only going to get stained with some of the pee on your legs?"

Dick's cheeks burn, mortified that this is even a conversation they're having, but still the man doesn't sound at all mocking, which is a bit of a balm to the humiliation.

"Okay?"

He hesitates a moment, and then whispers, "Okay."

The man's hand settles on Dick's foot, squeezing gently. "Thank you for letting me help you."

There's the sound of water then, sloshing around a container, and then a steady dripping as something is lifted out of it. Dick jumps when the wet sponge hits his thigh, but the man just wipes him down. The touches don't linger, and Dick allows himself to relax a little; the man really is just cleaning him off. He gets a little uneasy again when the sponge cleans over his cock, but still the man does nothing, the touch gone as quickly as it arrived.

"There," the man says. "All clean." Something else touches Dick's legs then, dry and a little scratchy, and Dick holds still while the man dries him off. "Can you lift your right foot for me?"

Dick hesitates, and then does it. The man pulls something up around his ankle, repeating the process with his left foot, and then when he begins to pull the thing up Dick realizes they're pants, soft and loose like pajamas. When the elastic band is settled around his hips, Dick lets out a breath, releasing some tension he hadn't even been aware he was holding.

"Thank you for letting me help you," the man says. Dick bites the inside of his lip. What is it with this guy? Why is he being so...It doesn't make sense.

The man stands back up, a hand going to cup his jaw. It's firm but not cruel, simply holding him in place, and then the water bottle is back. Dick opens his mouth greedily, but takes the advice from before and makes himself sip slowly.

"Good job," the man says, and it startles Dick enough that some water spills down his chin. The man doesn't comment, just rights the bottle and lets Dick drink for a little while longer before pulling back again.

The muzzle is immediately put back into place, locking Dick's jaw shut once more. "Goodbye, Nightwing."

Then they're gone again, and Dick is once more alone.

* * *

Being trapped for so long with only your thoughts to keep you company is a dangerous thing.

He has nothing to do but overanalyze what's happened so far, how the man has treated him, what specifically the man could want. He doubts and second-guesses and then longs to go home. The longer he's here, the more concerned he gets. Where's Bruce? Where's the rest of his family? Why haven't they found him yet?

That's when the bad thoughts set in, the ones that only come from being alone for so long. What if they're not coming at all? What if they're finally giving up on him, leaving him to his fate? What if no one cares at all, and it's just him and his captors for the rest of his measly life?

Dick is desperate for some human contact, if only to ward off all these insidious thoughts.

* * *

The Nightwing suit was well insulated. The cold of the room still got to him, but not nearly as much as it does now, clad in nothing but a pair of PJ pants.

The sensations war, how cold his legs are versus how much his muscles are burning. He's going to be so stiff if he gets out of this. Walking will certainly be a pain.

He goes still. No, it's not _if_ he gets out of this. It's _when._

* * *

His legs buckle, and he screams deep in his throat as his body drops, all of his weight going to his wrists. It shifts the angle of his shoulders, and after so long without them moving it _hurts,_ god does it hurt, his body protesting the movement like nothing before.

He forces his feet to cooperate, getting them beneath him, and with great difficulty pushes himself back into an upright position.

He can't stop shaking.

* * *

They return eventually.

"Hello, Nightwing," the man greets, just as welcoming and calm as ever. Dick wants to see him, wants to put a face to the man who's subjecting him to this. He wants to see he wants to see _he wants to see—_

The man approaches, undoes the muzzle like usual. Dick's mouth tastes like blood from how hard he's been biting the inside of his lips, anything to distract himself from the cold and the dark and the pain.

"You want to go home, don't you?" the man asks gently, and strokes Dick's hair back from his face in a soothing gesture.

Dick nods miserably, unable to bring himself to pull away from the touch. There's nowhere to go, anyway.

"I want you to go home, too," the man says. "I just need you to tell me one thing, and then you're free to go."

 _No,_ Dick wants to scream. _No, I can't. I can't._

But _god_ does he want to.

"Do you understand, Nightwing?"

"I understand," Dick says hoarsely. "But my answer is no."

The man sighs in disappointment, like a parent whose child brought home a failing grade.

"Alright," the man says, and pulls his hand out of Dick's hair, reattaching the muzzle. Dick can't stop the whimper that falls out of him at the action, but the man doesn't pause, walking back towards the door.

And Dick is once more alone.

* * *

He's alone.

* * *

He's alone.

* * *

_He's alone._

* * *

_**He's alone.** _

* * *

He's—

"Hello, Nightwing."

Dick keens behind the muzzle. It's not real, right? Just another hallucination. Because Dick is alone, none of this is real, it's just him in the dark and the cold bound to a wall, forgotten about and left behind—

But the hand on his face feels very real, and the muzzle gets detached, and that's so new, this isn't a hallucination, he's not alone anymore. His breaths start to come in too quickly, panicking already, because the man's going to leave again, leave Dick in this awful, awful place, and Dick just wants to go home he just wants to go home he _just wants—_

The man shushes him, and rubs his hands up and down Dick's sides soothingly. His hands are warm, so very warm, and Dick leans into the contact, seeking more of it against his icy skin. "It's okay," he says comfortingly. "I know, this is a lot, I know. But if you tell me one simple thing, all of this can end."

What could this man _possibly_ want from him that is worth all this? It can't be, right? It can't be worth this. This exhaustion, this pain, this loneliness, this starvation, this _pain,_ pissing himself, the metal around his wrists, the blackness, the _pain—_

"Would you like to know what I want?" the man asks, low and gentle.

Dick nods. The man makes a noise of approval, his hands stopping their stroking, settling on Dick's hips. They're so close together. Dick can feel the body heat radiating off of him, and Dick's desperate for some of his own.

"All I need you to say—and then you can get out of this room, get some sleep in a real bed, have a warm meal, take a shower—is the real name of Batman."

It's like ice water down Dick's spine.

God fucking _dammit._ Of course this is about Bruce, of _course_ it is. It always is. God forbid Dick go _one fucking day_ without Bruce somehow becoming the focus of all their lives. He's trapped in this place because everyone is always so _desperate_ to know Batman's identity.

And Dick's never getting out of here, because Bruce is his dad, and he'll never give up his name.

"Sorry," Dick says, pulling on a smile, knowing it probably isn't as vibrant as it's supposed to be. "I don't know it."

"You don't know it," the man echoes, doubt at the corners of his words. "Nightwing, the first Robin, doesn't know Batman's name? After working with him for more than fifteen years?"

Dick shrugs in a _what can you do_ kind of way. "The big man's secretive like that. We don't take it personally."

"Sure," the man agrees easily. "Well then you just think that all over for me, and I'll be back in a little while."

The muzzle returns. The men leave.

And Dick is alone with a bucket of resentment.

* * *

The noise starts shortly after, and in makes Dick cringe with his entire body when it starts.

It's loud, pulsing, ever-present. Dick can barely think, can barely _breathe,_ against the sound. There's no way to escape it. There's no way to block it out.

Dick's ears are already aching.

It doesn't stop.

* * *

It stops, and Dick feels nothing but relief, sagging against the wall and sucking in deep breaths. His ears are ringing, everything else feeling very far away, but it's over so that's okay. He can handle a little bit of ringing.

The noise starts back up again, and Dick sobs.

* * *

It goes on.

* * *

and on.

* * *

and on.

* * *

The sudden silence is jarring, and he jerks involuntarily, head tossing aimlessly.

He's dizzy. His head is pounding. His ears ache and throb and ring. His body burns. His cheeks above the muzzle are damp with tears. He wants this to be over. He so _desperately_ wants this to be over.

"Hello, Nightwing," the man greets, same as always, but it sounds like it's coming from underwater, the words thick and muted. Dick shakes his head like that'll somehow fix it, but when the man continues, it's no different. "You aren't looking too good."

He approaches, and Dick tilts his face up for the customary removing of the muzzle, but the man doesn't reach for his face, hands instead settling once more on Dick's hips, his thumbs stroking softly at the skin above the elastic band of the pajama pants.

"Nod if you're ready to tell me what I want to know," he says, leaning in so his lips brush the shell of Dick's ear. His voice is a little clearer this close, but Dick wishes he'd step away.

And Dick—god, he _wants._ He wants to tell the man what he asked for, wants this all to be over, wants to just stop hurting for a little while. It would be easy, just two little words and it's done, two little words and he can rest.

But he _can't,_ and he wants to scream and cry and curse the world for leaving him in a position like this. He wants to hit Bruce, if only because that means Bruce would be _here_ and Dick would be _safe._

So he shakes his head. The man hums thoughtfully.

"I admire you, Nightwing," he says. "You've been a hero since you were just a child, and have never stopped helping people. You face incredible odds and always end up coming out on top. It's amazing, truly. You and your fellow heroes; I'm impressed by all that you've accomplished. You don't deserve this, do you? You don't deserve to be hurt and punished for someone else. You do so much for so many people; do this for yourself. Give me the name, and this can all end."

Dick can't. He just _can't._

He shakes his head again. The man sighs.

"How about I take the edge off a little?" the man offers. "Make this a little easier for you to bare."

Dick tenses automatically, unsure. Make this easier on him? Why would his captor do that? What purpose does that serve? Why—

Then the man's thigh slides between Dick's legs, pressing firmly against his crotch.

Dick jerks, startled, a sound of protest making it's way out of his throat. He twists, trying to get away, but he's still trapped and the man is immoveable, rubbing his thigh against Dick's bulge, firm and coaxing.

He whines, distressed, when he feels himself getting hard, shaking his head.

"What, you don't like this?" the man asks, gentle and caring and Dick wants to _vomit._ "This'll make you feel good, though."

No, no, no, Dick doesn't want this, it needs to stop, he _doesn't want this—_

Dick isn't above begging, not now, but with the muzzle on he can't say a damn thing.

One of the man's hands slides off of his hips and into his pants, taking Dick in hand. He strokes him deftly, pleasurable and thus oh so very awful. Dick moans and whimpers and fresh tears fall.

"I just want you to feel good," the man says in his ear, breath hot and smelling faintly of mint. "But if you really don't want this, just tell me Batman's name."

He can't do it, he can't give Bruce up, that puts them _all_ in danger, he won't betray him, he won't betray their family.

Dick sobs and shakes his head. The man laughs softly.

"Then I guess you do want this, huh? That's okay, I won't tell anyone how desperate for it you are."

Dick knows that's just the man trying to get in his head. He _knows._ This isn't his first time around the block.

But that doesn't stop it from working.

His hips buck involuntarily and then he's coming, coating the man's hand and the inside of his pants. His chest heaves as he desperately sucks in air, fighting back the urge to cry and cry, the urge to scream.

The man withdraws his hands from his pants and wipes the sticky cum off on Dick's stomach, the warmth of it rapidly cooling. Dick sniffles and swallows back any other pathetic noises.

"You look pretty like this," the man tells him. "So I want you to consider what's going to happen the next time I come here, Nightwing. I just want two words from you, and then this is all over. But if you say no again, then I suppose we'll have to find other ways to occupy your time, won't we?"

His hands drift around to Dick's behind, squeezing his ass, leaving no room for interpretation about what the man means by _other ways._

Dick tastes stomach bile at the back of his throat.

The man leaves.

Dick cries.

* * *

The awful, pulsing sounds start up again.

This time he's almost grateful for it; it's loud enough to distract him from his growing despair and panic.

* * *

The man returns. He asks the same question. Dick shakes his head, denying.

The man uses spit as lube and doesn't bother with any preparation. It hurts. Dick screams.

The man comes inside him and pulls his pajama pants back up and presses a gentle kiss to his forehead.

And then he leaves again.

Dick feels something inside of him crack.

* * *

When the door opens, he doesn't hear it beneath the screaming of the sounds, so the hands touching his face come as a very large surprise, and he screams, thrashing.

Faintly, he hears the distant sound of someone talking, but he can't make out the words or the voice. The person comes in close and puts their lips right against Dick's ear as they say, "Wing, it's okay, we're here. The music will be off soon, and I'm gonna get you out of here, okay?"

The voice is familiar. The voice is family. So Dick nods rapidly, swallowing back tears, and leans gratefully against his brother as Jason begins the process of getting him out of here.

**Author's Note:**

> Never fear, second chapter will be up shortly! It'll be posted after Batfam Week is over.
> 
> See y'all tomorrow for Day 4!


End file.
